


Henry Tries to Sleep

by OwlinAutumn



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Fantasizing, Fantasy, Insomnia, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-11
Updated: 2006-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlinAutumn/pseuds/OwlinAutumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you have to try to occupy yourself when you just can't sleep ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Henry Tries to Sleep

Henry Andrews stared up at his blank, dark ceiling, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He hated this, when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes working the night shift made for the oddest sleep hours. When he got off early, half the time he almost felt obliged to sleep so he could catch up with normal people, maybe do some normal things before he had to go to work at the odd hour of 9 pm. This would, of course, throw him off again, making him not want to go to sleep later, he would get tired earlier on, drink lots of coffee, and then he wouldn’t be able to sleep when he finally did get to bed.

And so, with wretched resignation, Henry stared at the ceiling. Of course, the best course of action, in his opinion, when faced with insomnia, is to attempt to lull yourself into a sleep state by thinking about what you’d like to dream. It was a solution that didn’t work that well, but it gave him something to do until he actually did drift off to sleep.

Of course, that left him with the question of what to dream about. His mind wandered a bit, and of course, couldn’t help but settle on a face with big, brown eyes and a wide, brilliant smile, with a sandy blond-brown shock of hair spiked carefully above. Greg had this terrible ability to smile and tilt his head at him so as to make every hair on the back of Henry’s neck stand up. If the CSI even touched him, breathed on his neck or brushed against him, Henry had a tendency to need to stand at his table for unexplained minutes at a time.

Just thinking about Greg was having an effect on him he thought quietly to himself, seeing his blankets rise slightly around his groin. Sighing, he slid a hand down under the sheets, his hand easily slipping down the waistband of his pajama bottoms. His cock was hardening, even as he grabbed it gently and let it slide down his palm. In his mind, Greg Sanders was whispering his name in his reddening ear and asking him to do strange and marvelous things to him … or with him.

And then Henry was slowly pumping his fist, giving a few soft gasps as he imagined what Greg’s hand would feel like wrapped around his length; His skin a little softer, his fingers longer and more agile. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, Greg might offer to kiss it, lick it, even … Put his mouth over it and suck on it. God, the thought made him blush from head to toe, not an easy feat when he was already erect. The whole thing made him lightheaded.

Free hand curling into the sheets, Henry couldn’t keep his hips from pulsing upwards into his hand. If the nuns could see him now … why was that thought kinky? Hell, any thought would be kinky at this point. He could just imagine Greg pushing him into one of the stalls of the boy’s locker room back in his old Catholic high school, after they’d avoided being caught by Sister Bridget Gallagher. Greg might force him against the wall and pull his jeans down, getting down on his knees before beginning to perform an action that would get them both expelled if they were caught. Good, well-raised Catholic boys weren’t supposed to do that. They weren’t supposed to think about other boys that way. They certainly shouldn’t be jerking off, alone in their bedroom.

He was huffing rather hard now, in full fantasy mode as he envisioned Greg giving him lascivious looks while sucking him into his mouth. Watching that sandy hair bob as his tongue massaged down his cock. Dear holy fucking God. There were little whimpers huffing from Henry’s mouth with no one around to hear. He certainly couldn’t, with all the blood rushing in his ears. His hand was working speedily now, pumping hard as he mumbled incoherent things about Greg and his mouth and not getting caught, the gauzy line between reality and fantasy slipping.

One last time Henry pictured those brown eyes glancing up at him, and that was all it took. He came, neck and back arching away from the bed, his hips thrusting uselessly into the sheets as he spent himself, his hand erratic as the muscles in his body tightened. Slowly he collapsed back into the mattress, half aware of the wetness in the sheets above his groin, the damn stickiness on the back of his hand. Hazily he licked his lips, thinking that even just fantasizing about Greg was worth all the things the nuns used to tell them would happen if you touched yourself.

After a little while, successfully tired but too neurotic about such things to sleep, Henry sat up and pulled the sheet away until he had removed it, tossing it aside until he could wash it. Pulling up his pants and curling himself into the comforter, he slowly drifted into sleep.

It was hours later when soft padding on the floor and pressure on the other side of the mattress woke him. Someone tugged at the comforter, and then a hand slid around his waist, a warm body pulling close. Henry made a soft noise in his throat, opening his hazel eyes slowly as he turned his head.

“Mm. Hi,” Whispered a voice in his ear that, in his half-asleep state, made him shiver. “Where’s the sheet?”

“On the floor,” He muttered back, strangely cognizant. “Was thinking about you earlier.”

“Oh?” Chuckled Greg into his ear, tucking his chin into Henry’s shoulder, “Must’ve been some good thoughts.”

“Very,” Henry grinned sleepily, then turned his head back into his pillow.


End file.
